


Trove

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Dry Humping, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1918503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desus solidifies his relationship with Spock. (Set in <i>Black Fire</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trove

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is fanfiction specifically for the ST book _Black Fire_ by Sonni Cooper, during Spock’s run as a pirate with Pirate Captain Desus.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It takes all of his control to walk through the compound as though nothing’s wrong. As soon as his shuttle landed, he was assured that their communications will be fixed in no time and that everything Astro said was a complete and utter lie. Desus, of course, guessed as much, but it doesn’t stop the anxiety from seizing him every step of the way. He knows very well that he holds the greatest treasure on Corsair, and Astro in particular would _love_ to get his greasy Terran hands on it. 

But, fortunately, when Desus finally reaches his sleeping quarters, they’re just as he left them. The large bed in the back—his—is made, blankets just barely covering the heavy chests sealed underneath, sporting more wealth than most pirates would know what to do with. The smaller bunk across from it, moved in specifically so he could keep track of his prize, is made as well and sports that very treasure he’s been so desperate to see. 

Spock looks up at Desus’ entrance, a strange, black fabric in his hands that seems to trap the light. Its unusual properties are nothing compared to the Vulcan himself, and Desus doesn’t bother to ask what Spock was doing. He merely strolls forward, pace forcibly nonchalant. Spock drops the fabric and rises to his feet, stepping closer. Desus means to stop short and express his approval, but instead, he finds himself completing the distance, his feet still moving after Spock’s have stopped, his arms opening to embrace the man he’s come to think of as an honourary brother. Spock’s body goes rigid at once—typical Vulcan posturing under physical sensations. It doesn’t deter Desus, who holds Spock hard, arms wrapping all around Spock’s strong back, his chin hooking over Spock’s shoulder, his mouth exhaling next to Spock’s pointed ear, too relieved for words. It takes Spock a moment to hold him back, and though the rise of Spock’s soft palms against his shoulder blades is tenuous and hesitant, Desus relishes in the touch. It’s more than most would get out of this man, he knows. 

He murmurs, “I am pleased to find you unharmed.” He can practically feel Spock’s eyebrow lifting against his cheek, and he isn’t particularly surprised by Spock’s cool retort.

“I was never in danger of being otherwise.” But after a few stretching seconds, Spock adds, “Though I am pleased at your safe return from your own exploits, Desus.” As usual, he doesn’t ask after the success of the mission; Spock never seems to care for any of the riches or adventure attuned to a pirate’s life. Nonetheless, Desus is grinning wide when he pulls away, relinquishing only after a final squeeze of Spock’s thin frame. 

He holds Spock’s arms in his hands as he explains, “I received a communication from Astro stating that he had your head. I was, as you can imagine, not amused.” 

Spock’s eyebrow lifts just as Desus has been expecting it to. “The man has a tendency towards falsehoods. I assure you, my head is not in his possession.”

“No,” Desus chuckles. “I suppose it’s not. It’s in mine, right where it belongs.”

Spock doesn’t protest, merely nods. He _is_ Desus’, in a way. The greatest treasure Desus ever returned to the Romulan compound with. He’s been surprised with Spock’s complicity in it, in Spock’s talent and Spock’s loyalty, but there is no denying that their relationship has blossomed. He can see the conflict even in Spock’s eyes, in those rare moments where the Vulcan still must contemplate his divided interests. He’s a product of the Federation, but Starfleet has cast him out, and Desus has taken him in, and Spock must know as well as Desus does that Spock _fits_ in these arms. As Desus’ thumbs gently caress the creamy skin of Spock’s biceps, Spock’s chin falls, eyelids lowering. The mood is changing between them again, as it so dangerously is prone to do. 

Desus has already decided, in his brief time with his worry, that he won’t leave this world again without exploring that connection. 

The only reason he isn’t shoving Spock towards the bed and demanding they make their link concrete is his respect for Spock’s ways, and he knows Vulcans are... slower... with these things. He knows Terrans have greatly exaggerated the Vulcan policy to mate only once every seven years, but he still knows that Spock will want to be conservative, and so he keeps his initial actions chaste. He means to discuss this. But the proximity to Spock’s body overwhelms him, and he tilts his head and leans in with no warning but more than enough time to pull away.

Spock, perhaps frozen in surprise, doesn’t. Desus presses their mouths together just long enough to memorize the soft feeling of Spock’s lips against his, and then he pulls away again, standing too close for anything so limited as friendship.

Spock, far more than a friend, breathes, “ _Desus._ ” his eyes have fallen half closed, his cheeks faintly green. Desus lifts a hand to cup Spock’s face, thumbing the sharp curve of Spock’s cheekbone, and he leans in for another, pleased when Spock doesn’t stop him.

Spock doesn’t push him away. At first, Spock doesn’t participate, either. Desus pushes harder, stepping closer, his feet nearly between Spock’s, but he loops an arm around Spock’s waist to make sure Spock doesn’t fall. Spock’s arms leap to his shoulders but don’t stop him. Spock is warm, so _warm_. The feeling of Spock’s lean body in his arms is too familiar. It reminds him of all those times in the rehabilitation center that Spock was pushed around and Desus leaped to his rescue—the only other ‘alien’ in the center. The two of them were alone in that place, and they grew closer in that solitude, and even now that they’re _free_ and among other Romulans, there’s a kinship with Spock that Desus hasn’t felt before. He knows Spock feels it too, because after a time, Spock tilts his head, and that’s all the encouragement Desus needs. 

Desus breaks their mouths apart but doesn’t pull away. His forehead leans against Spock, knowing full well that Spock is a touch-telepath, that he’s likely to feel Desus’ _desire_ through his skull. He wants Spock to know. He looks into Spock’s dark, dilated eyes and murmurs, “We’ve been hiding from this too long.” Shocked when Spock slowly nods, he adds, quirking a smile, “I confess, I didn’t think you’d be so... agreeable. 

“Because I am Vulcan,” Spock fills in. 

“Because you are you,” Desus agrees, pecking Spock’s cheek. Now that he’s gotten a hold of Spock, he doesn’t want to let go. He kisses Spock again, even as Spock turns away to talk. 

“I... have not had the ability to live as a Vulcan for quite some time.” Of course not. Not since being here, in this compound, not since the prison—perhaps even before that, if Spock’s story of the Tomarii threat is anything to go by. A long, long time. And that’s bound to change a person. 

But Spock’s safe here, and seems happy, and Desus informs him, “You are a Romulan now.” After a moment, though half-heartedly, Spock nods. 

Desus kisses him again. Harder. _Perfect_. Spock isn’t quite a Romulan and never will be. In some ways, he’s more beautiful. Exotic. But he fits against Desus’ body like he was meant to be there. They look so much alike that they could probably fool anyone, if they dressed the same and were careful in their concealment. Desus’ pressure pushes Spock back a step. Spock’s hands rise, and now he’s really _clinging_ to Desus’ shoulders, maybe for support. Desus mumbles between kisses, “Romulans make love freely.”

Spock has to turn his head to avoid being muzzled by Desus’ mouth, and he mutters, “I am not sure I am ready for that.” Desus knows. He says as much, both in his muffled words and his mind; it’s fine, all fine; he would wait for Spock; it’s worth it. When he kisses Spock again, he pushes his tongue past the line of Spock’s lips, and they smoothly part for him. The entrance is sweet and slick and warm, and though Spock’s tongue doesn’t seem to know what to do, it lightly sweeps over Desus’, and together, they fight a dance that would make any Romulan proud. 

Desus forces Spock back again. Then again. He devours any more queries Spock might have, distracts Spock from standing firm, and he goads Spock closer and closer to the large stretch of mattress dressed in fine alien silks. He can feel when Spock’s knees hit the back of it, and he pushes Spock down. 

Spock goes freely, hitting the mattress and looking up at Desus, eyes burning through heavy lashes. They should’ve done this a long time ago. They should’ve started this in their cell. It would’ve made the cold prison nights easier to bear. Spock should’ve been born a Romulan, and they could’ve been promised to one another since birth. 

Spock is old enough now to decide for himself, and he sent that transmission that allied him with the Romulan Empire. He’s as good as blood, now. He sits on Desus’ bed, chest rising and falling too heavily beneath Desus’ own clothes, hand-me-downs that fit Spock like a glove. Desus has always enjoyed seeing Spock in them. ...But now he just wants to rip them all away. 

He puts a knee up on the bed, next to Spock’s thigh, and he asks, “May I have you?”

Spock opens his mouth. He doesn’t manage anything at first, then closes them, reopens and says, “You know my limits.” Desus nods in the Terran fashion Spock’s used to. Those limits have never been spoken aloud, but Desus _knows_. He knows Spock better than perhaps any pirate has a right to know another. 

He climbs onto the mattress slowly, like a le-matya on the prowl, and it gives Spock time to move, to fall back on his elbows and rearrange himself length-wise in the bed. Desus helps, grabbing his hips and sliding him up, until his head falls into the pillows. Desus settles atop him, lining all of their bodies up, head to toe, and brings their mouths together again, barely able to restrain his delight when Spock comes up to meet him. Their mouths open from the start this time, and Desus traces every part of Spock he can with his tongue, memorizing it all. He strokes Spock’s teeth and the groove down the middle of his tongue and the roof of his mouth. There’s a semi-bland, semi-vanilla taste to Spock’s mouth that Desus finds _intoxicating._ Spock obviously enjoys Desus’ own mouth just as much. Apparently denying what they have, now that it’s been exposed, is no longer logical. 

Desus likes Spock logical, but he likes Spock like this too, wild and coming undone beneath him. He presses one of his legs between Spock’s, their torsos already flattened together, chests grinding into one another, the buttons down the center of each catching and threatening to tear. Desus doesn’t care if he ruins both sets. He keeps one fist tight in Spock’s flawless hair and runs the other down the arch of Spock’s long body. When he reaches Spock’s hip, he holds tight, and he rolls his crotch down into Spock’s, delighting at the moan it earns him. 

Desus does it again, and Spock tries to swallow another moan, but Desus knows it’s there. Again and again, Desus slides them together, his thigh shoved between Spock’s to rub at Spock from below, the twin bulges in their too-tight pants rising to the surface. Through the thin fabric, Desus can feel the curve and weight of Spock’s balls and the hardness of Spock’s engorged shaft. He knows Spock can feel his too, and it takes a considerable amount of control to stop himself from tearing off those layers between them. He’ll wait. He saw Spock strip in jail, many times, but that was different then. When Spock does it now, when Spock willingly removes all the layers of protection that hide him from Desus’ eyes, when he tugs at Desus’ own clothes, Desus will go wild and destroy every last scrap of cloth until it’s nothing but sweat-slicked bare skin and the unhindered heat of their bodies. For now, he respects Spock’s need to stay clothed, and he grinds into Spock anyway, humping Spock into the mattress hard enough to make Spock’s body recoil back into him. He growls into Spock’s mouth and bites Spock’s bottom lip and tries not to be as feral as he wants—Romulans are virulent lovers, and he _knows_ that Spock’s Vulcan strength can take him. 

Spock is clutching at him and humping him back. It takes Desus a minute to realize that action through his thinning head and the heavy thud of his hips into Spock’s, but when he concentrates, he can feel it; Spock is purposely rising to meet him. Spock is thrusting back into him. But Spock is discriminate, and Desus feels vaguely honoured to have such an intelligent, talented man ramming so wantonly into him. It fuels Desus’ desire. He has to tear his mouth away from Spock’s before he bites Spock’s tongue off, and he shoves Spock’s head aside with his grip of Spock’s hair. Spock gasps as Desus mouths down to his chin and nips at his jaw, scraping hard teeth along it, dipping down to his neck to leave large, wet bruises where a collar can cover them. He bites into Spock with the intention of marking Spock all over, claiming him so irreparably that no other, especially not that accursed Astro, could ever _dare_ to touch Spock again. 

Spock’s noises halt suddenly, gasps and moans cutting off into rapid, strained breath, and Desus knows that Spock is attempting to exert Vulcan control. It doesn’t upset Desus. If anything, it gives him a swell of pride that he’s pushed Spock so far, considered so dangerous; he has such a grip of Spock that Spock knows he’s about to be lost. Desus allows his lover the illusion of restraint and grinds into him harder, essentially fucking him mercilessly into the bed. Spock’s dick is twitching in its confines, fighting to be free, pulsing: a trait their biology shares. Desus’ isn’t far behind. His sheathed cock vibrates against Spock’s as he slides them together, the inside of his underwear and pants nearly glued to his skin with the sweat of exertion and arousal. The musk in the air is heavy, even with all their clothes on. Desus runs his teeth up to the delicate shell of Spock’s ear and tugs on it, hissing, “You are _mine._ ”

Spock doesn’t answer. It’s as good as permission. In an attempt to be fair and true to a man he’s rapidly falling in love with, Desus forces himself to admit aloud, “And I am yours, as well.” Spock’s head rolls to face him, eyes alight with mild surprise, dilated in mostly pleasure. “Don’t you ever forget that.” Desus kiss him again, and Spock returns it fervently, long fingers sliding all over Desus’ body. When Spock’s arm wraps around his waist, palm cradling the back of his head, it’s all Desus can do not to tremble. 

Even without being _inside_ Spock, even without feeling Spock’s raw skin, it’s more than Desus can take. The intimacy is enough. He comes with a feral roar he presses into the side of Spock’s face, hips wildly pounding out the orgasm that wrenches through his body. Everywhere tightens and releases, and he paints the inside of his underwear and doesn’t stop, rolls into Spock again and again, shuddering in great waves of pleasure. His mind threatens to blank out, but he holds on. He slams into Spock until Spock follows him with a strangled cry, hips freezing against his own. 

He can feel the wet spot growing in Spock’s pants. He can smell their mingled release in the air. He feels golden and perfect and light headed, and it takes him a few moments to slow to a stop, both of them now struggling for breath. 

Spock shoves lightly at Desus’ chest, and Desus slips to Spock’s side, giving Spock room to sigh, lungs decompressing. He stays half draped over Spock’s body, well aware of how his sweat-soaked clothes are clinging to his skin. It takes Desus’ vision a moment to steady, and then he’s watching Spock’s beautiful face, lost in its own high. 

Spock takes longer to come down. He probably isn’t used to physical intimacy. But this is just the beginning, and Desus knows it’ll grow far more stringent. He brings his hand to the other side of Spock’s face, tilting Spock’s chin to look at him, and he forces himself to ask, “Any regrets?”

Spock instantly murmurs, “No.” But after a moment he adds, “I am simply... conflicted.” He reaches for Desus’ chin, but instead runs his long fingers lazily down the length of Desus’ chest. He finds Desus’ other hand, limp in the mattress, and he traces Desus’ wrist, stopping over his pulse. Spock licks his lips and says carefully, “I am... glad... that I met you.” His eyes flicker back to Desus’, catching. 

Desus grins and can’t stop himself from leaning forward, wanting a final kiss. He doesn’t go the rest of the way; he lets Spock come to him. Spock does. 

Safe in the depths of the Romulan compound, Desus cuddles up to his exotic lover. It’s good to be back in his own bed, better to have Spock waiting for him. He drifts off to sleep with that perfect fit in his arms, content in the knowledge that Spock will follow.


End file.
